


Book of Love

by Gorillazgal86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Singing, Slow Dancing, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86
Summary: Love is written in the smallest moments shared, a glance, a brush of skin, a kindly spoken word. It is the simple everyday acts of affection that write the sweetest tales.





	1. Read to Me

Crowley was not a "reader" as such. He can read, of course, and had been known to, on occasion, sit down and enjoy a book. But he couldn't lose days in a novel any more than Aziraphale could sleep away a century. What he did enjoy very much, however, was being read to -- by Aziraphale. Before the world offered such charming distractions as mobile phones and televisions, Crowley would have passed many hours in the back room of the bookshop, listening intently as the angel shared stories he thought Crowley would like.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said to him on a bright afternoon in 1890. "You must join me this evening! Oscar has just given me a signed copy of his first novel and from what he's told me so far, it's simply marvellous!" the angel was giddy with excitement.

"You said the same thing when Dicken's gave you _Great_ _Expectations_. And that was hard work," Crowley arched an eyebrow, not entirely convinced.

"Well, yes, but this is different, you like Wilde,"

Crowley laughed, "Not as much as you do."

Aziraphale bristled, looking a touch embarassed. "He's a lovely man, with such wit! Oh, come on, trust me on this one. Come around to the shop this evening and we'll read it together with a bottle of wine."

"Oh all right angel, if you insist," Crowley sounded more put off the idea than he actually was.

"Splendid!" Aziraphale clapped his hands in delight.

That evening, Crowley appeared at the door of the bookshop and rapped the door before turning the handle to open it. The sign read "closed", but then it usually did. "Are you in, it's me?"

"Oh yes! Just in the back, letting the wine breathe."

The demon closed the door behind him, turning the latch to lock the door and went to join Aziraphale.

"Letting in breathe? Did you dig out some special?" Crowley asked.

"Of course, this is a momentous occassion, Wilde's first novel, he's a dear friend and we should toast the accomplishment."

"Well, yes, of course." Crowley chuckled and watched as the angel busied himself. He was handed a glass, which he took gratefully. "I've brought some chocolates, just something to nibble on," Crowley offered a simple box.

"That's very thoughtful of you, thank you,” Aziraphale's eye lit up and took the box, never one to turn down a treat.

"They're Belgian, you'll like these," Crowley said, nodding his head towards the box.

Azirphale couldn't resist opening the box, looking over the selection reverently. He selected one and placed it delicately on his tongue. Crowley watched with interest as Aziraphale bit down, his eyes opening in surprise, a bit of liquor escaping the corner of his mouth. Crowley's breath hitched slightly as the angel's tongue darted out to catch it.

"Ooo, there's ameretto in those, how wonderful," Aziraphale took a moment more to savour the flavour. "Lovely and a bit boozy, exellent choice Crowley!" he beamed.

Crowley pulled his eyes away, very aware he was staring most indecently. "I'm glad you like them," he lifted a kirsch one for himself.

Aziraphale made his way to the ageing settee and set down his own glass and the wine bottle. "Here, get comfortable, this is a novel after all."

Crowley pulled his coat off, draping it on a nearby bookshelf. He loosened his cravat and stuffed it into coat pocket and finally undid the first couple of buttons around his neck. He sat next to Aziraphale on the settee, settling in and stretching his legs out. "So let's see this book then angel," Crowley put his hand out. He knew Aziraphale enjoyed showing off his treasures and this would be no excpetion.

Aziraphale handed him the magazine the story had been published in, "It's not in hardcover yet, hot off the press, as it were. _The Portrait of Dorian Gray_ " he smiled. Crowley lifted it and gave it an appreciative lookover.

"Very nice," he said and pulled his sunglasses off, setting them beside him and picking up his wine.

Aziraphale took a deep drink of his wine and took the magazine back from Crowley. He settled his reading glasses (not that he needed them, but found them very becoming) on his nose opened the first page and began to read:

"THE artist Is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist Is art's aim. The critic Is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his Impression of beautiful things. The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography."

Crowley let his eyes close and Aziraphale's voice wash over him.

"Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all."

Crowley adored these quiet moments, beautiful words on beautiful lips, read by a beautiful voice. He could listen to Aziraphale read the Bible (and indeed had, on a number of occassions) and he would not grow tired of it. These were amongst their more intimate moments, Aziraphale was not fretting about the mis-deeds Crowley might be up to and when engaged in a story, the angel was truly himself. He consumed books like a man starving and while he didn't always let Crowley into this world, when he did Crowley could imagine an alternate reality where they were not mortal enemies.

"Are you comfortable?” Aziraphale asked as he finished the first chapter.

"Mm, yes thank you, more wine though, please," Crowley opened his eyes and offered his now empty wine glass. Aziraphale refilled it, along with his own.

"Are you enjoying it, so far?"

"I am, yes, it's very good in fact. Keep going," Crowley sipped at his wine and edged closer.

Aziraphale smiled, delighted the demon was enjoying this as much as he was. He continued to read, the soothing tenor of his voice relaxing Crowley to his core. A warming tingle from the wine beginning to settle in his stomach. As the chapers went in, Crowley slowly began to slump into the settee, and eventually his head found its way to Aziraphale's lap. Aziraphale only stopped to sip or refill his wine and when he felt the pressure on his leg, his fingers found their way effortlessly into Crowley's hair, threading their way through the auburn strands.

"That's lovely angel," he murmured.

"Shall I keep going?" Aziraphale looked down at Crowley, who looked like he may be falling asleep. His thumb brushed across his forehead, his fingers still slowly tangling in and out of his hair.

"Don't stop, I'm awake," Crowley reassured him, opening his golden eyes and looking up.

Crowley settled again against the warmth of Aziraphale's soft stomach and gentle touch thorugh his hair. He prayed this would go on forever.

"Aziraphale," he said, just barely a whipser, when Aziraphale's voice had gone quiet and the story had finished.

"Yes?" Aziraphale asked.

"Can you read me another one? Please?"

"Of course my dear."


	2. Sing to Me

"Ugh, I'm not sure I can keep this up angel. Toddlers are impossible. All he does is cry and scream and throw things at me." Crowley sank into Aziraphale's settee in the bookshop, unscrewed a bottle of wine and promptly inhaled half the bottle. Some occasions called for a fine vintage; this was not one of those occasions. A day like this demanded screw-top wine. And lots of it.

Aziraphale laughed, taking a deep drink. "You volunteered, dear, this is your own doing." Gardening was tiring enough, but he didn't envy Crowley's work as Nanny Ashtoerth, particularly as by all reports, young Warlock had become something of a threenager (his mother's words) and had developed a particular fondness for the word no.

"Only because I look better in a skirt than you do," he looked down realising he was still wearing said skirt, stained with pureed carrot. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and snapped his fingers to miracle something more to his own tastes, dark jeans and an equally dark t-shirt. "Give us that wine back," he held his hand out.

"You've never seen me in a skirt, may be just as lovely," Aziraphale passed the bottle back.

"Oh? You think I look lovely in a skirt there angel?" Crowley grinned wickedly.

"That's. . . that's not what I meant," Aziraphale's cheeks went quite a bright colour of pink.

Crowley just smirked and they continued to pass the bottle between them, comparing notes of their self-assigned godfather assignment.

As a fourth bottle of wine was opened, their conversation drifted from raising the Antichrist to more philosophical questions:

"So tell me, how many angels can actually dance on a head of a pin?" Crowley, full of cheek.

Aziraphale giggled, "I know the answer to this! One!" His nose scrunched in delight. 'It's me!" He pointed proudly at himself.

"That's right, I forgot about you and your beloved gavotte! No one dances that anymore."

"I know," Aziraphale pouted, he had so enjoyed dancing.

"C'mon then angel, I'll teach you a new one," Crowley stood up and wobbled for a moment, the wine rushing rather quickly to his head.

"Um, alright then," Aziraphale followed him, also feeling a bit unsteady on his feet. "Probably not going to be any good."

"Don't say that, this one's easy. Here, stand behind me and follow my feet. Right foot goes back, left foot goes next to it . . . shoulder-width apart. And then close them," He glanced behind him, as the angel mimicked his feet. "And then left foot forward," He stumbled forward, catching himself on a table. "Don't do that bit."

Aziraphale laughed and waited to Crowley to right himself. "Right, so left foot forward, right foot up next to it, shoulder-width again and then close. Then you do it all over again."

"And that's it?" Aziraphale asked, following along with Crowley.

"Well, there's more to it than that, but that will do for now," Crowley turned around and stepped back, watching the angel continue to move in a box step and smiled approvingly. "You're getting it now."

"I just stand here like this?" Aziraphale had to be honest, he didn't much see the point of this, it certainly did not measure up to the complexity and allure of the gavotte.

"No, you dance it with someone else, like this," He stepped forward, pulled the Aziraphale close to him with a hand on the small of his back, and took his other hand in his, raising them both to shoulder height. "Your hand on my shoulder."

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat from the firm touch and the sudden closeness between him and the demon. His heart began to thump insistently in his chest. He looked up, feeling much more sober than he had just a moment ago. He gulped as Crowley began to lead him in the box step again, moving awkwardly as he tried to force his brain and his feet to synchronise.

"Relax angel, just follow my lead," Crowley's voice was soft, his face inscrutable behind his dark glasses. Aziraphale nodded.

"Would there be music to go with this?" he asked as their steps fell in together. He paused for a moment and found his hand reaching up on its own accord to Crowley's glasses.

"May I?" His hand hovered a moment, shaking.

"Sure," Crowley breath was a bit ragged as Aziraphale gently removed his sunglasses. The angel smiled warmly as Crowley's amber eyes met his own. Aziraphale had a faint blush on his cheeks, trying to pretend that this was all perfectly normal and his heart wasn't an inch from bursting from his chest.

Crowley took the moment his hand was free to snap lightly, a record materialising onto Aziraphale's ancient gramophone, the needle setting itself and the sound of a piano filled the bookshop. After a moment, Crowley began to move them again, pulling Aziraphale close again.

"Just a perfect day, drink sangria in the park and then later, when it gets dark, we go home," Crowley began to softly sing along as their bodies found the rhythm and moved together slowly.

Aziraphale's head was spinning, his body felt like it was on fire. His eyes were glued firmly to Crowley's, unable to tear himself away. His snake-like eyes were wide and inviting and their bodies pressed closer with each step, closing any gap between them.

Aziraphale had always felt an aura of affection from Crowley and had, at various times, wondered if it meant what he had suspected it might, but he had never allowed himself to dwell on it too long. The consequences of an angel and demon . . . becoming close, were severe. But it was in this moment he was certain beyond reasonable doubt and was too overwhelmed to care about what their respective head offices may think of this.

Crowley's touch was firm and wanting, as if he were clinging on for his very existence. As the demon sang to him, moving him effortlessly through this simple, but utterly enchanting set of steps, Aziraphale saw him as God's most perfect creation.

"Just a perfect day, you made me forget myself, I thought I was someone else, someone good,” Crowley held Aziraphale's gaze, his fingers wrapping tightly against the angel's, his thumb idly making small circles around the top of his hand.

As the music faded away, Crowley looked down the floor, suddenly very aware of himself. The bookshop was silent save for their breathing. He opened his mouth to speak, but Aziraphale put a finger to his lips, stilling his voice. He lingered a moment there, studying the demon's face and then pressed their lips together.

Crowley's eyes opened wide in surprise. "Aziraphale . . . ." he said breathlessly, cupped his face and returned the kiss, hungry but tender. The angel melted into the kiss, winding his arms around Crowley's neck, his fingers playing with the soft hair at the back of his neck.

After what could have been seconds, minutes or hours, they parted, lips swollen and wet, eyes glowing in the dim light.

"Aziraphale, I . . ." Crowley began, wanting desperately to say the words he had held back for six thousand years.

"I know my dear," Aziraphale craved hearing them as much as Crowley wished to speak them, but knew it couldn't be now. Once spoken aloud, there was no going back, no plausible deniability if they were found out.

"Me too," He pressed the words to Crowley's ear and hoped he'd understand.


	3. Give Me Things

The night the Armageddon didn't and Aziraphale stayed the night, an angel and a demon had talked and schemed into the small hours, their plan to switch bodies hatched and finalised in those enchanted hours before dawn, where it's too early to be night, but not yet morning.

"Should we do it now, to make sure it works?" Crowley had whispered, his heart thumping.

"Yes, I suppose we should," Aziraphale's voice was also soft and quiet.

"On three then?" Crowley offered his hand to the angel and held his breath.

"One, two, three . . . . " They said together and then clasped hands, both closing their eyes, preparing for impact.

Crowley would never forget the feeling of the magic taking hold, his mind's eye picturing every inch of the angel, captured in the finest detail from 6,000 years of careful study and a most heartfelt adoration. He felt his body change, grow softer and just a bit shorter. It rushed through his body and left him breathless. When he opened his eyes, he was taken aback to see his own snake-like yellow eyes looking back at him. He tilted his head and studied what was now his mirror image and then brought his hand up to his face, turning it slowly in front of his face, the glint of the gold pinky ring catching the low light of a lamp nearby.

"This is . . . . different," was all Crowley could this to say, but it wasn't his voice.

"Indeed," Aziraphale breathed, taking in the sight of Crowley wearing his body and speaking with his voice.

Aziraphale's hands reached out delicately to touch Crowley's face. "Incredible. . . .it's like looking in a mirror," the angel laughed and despite the fact he was wearing a new face, the way his nose scrunched and his eyes lit up when he laughed were distinctly Aziraphale.

"I look good on you," Crowley smiled.

"You look good on anything, my dear."

They practiced until daybreak how to move and speak and be the other. Watching Aziraphale master the demon's signature saunter was indeed a sight to behold, knees initially trembling and knocking, but after some coaching, finally able to stride nearly as effortlessly as Crowley himself.

"Are you afraid?" Aziraphale had asked as the morning sun began to brighten, signalling it was time to go..

"Only if we've got this wrong . . . . " Crowley said, his eyes looking down. If they had read the cryptic prophecy incorrectly or if their character work slipped, they would surely damn the other . . . destroy him completely. And there would be no opportunity for a last-minute miraculous intervention this time.

"Me too," Aziraphale's hands (or indeed, Crowley's) twisted nervously.

Crowley pulled the angel in to a tight hug, holding onto him, knowing it could very well the be last chance he'd get.

"I trust you." he said.

"I trust you, too," Aziraphale gripped onto him.

They both stood there a moment, breathing the other in, capturing every precious scent and the warmth of two bodies held close. Six thousand years of shared memories danced across both their minds, a stark reminder of what was at stake.

Millenia of unspoken words hung on Crowley's tongue, but he swallowed them like the most bitter of medicine and when they finally broke apart, he offered a pained smile.

"See you on the other side."

___________

They had indeed chosen their faces wisely and Crowley found he did not want everything to return to exactly the way it was. The smell of burning books still lingered in his nose and he still stepped cautiously over the doorway into his office where holy water had destroyed Ligur. The world hadn't ended, but it had certainly changed.

Crowley and Aziraphale had been handed a fresh start, with assurances that Heaven and Hell would leave them to their earthly existence. And Crowley found himself daydreaming about what that could mean exactly. One thing he was sure of, was that he wanted Aziraphale to be in every single moment of it.

There was one particular idea he found himself circling back to, something that wouldn't his and wouldn't be Aziraphale's, but would be their's. And quietly, he began to put the pieces into motion.

"Everything all right? You seem distracted recently," Aziraphale had said to him one evening over wine, the concern evident in his voice.

"Oh, yes, everything is just fine Angel," Crowley smiled.

Aziraphale gave him a look that told Crowley he wasn't convinced. "You know, you can talk to me, if there's anything on your mind."

"I know that and thank you. But honestly, it's nothing, just adjusting to this brave new world. Well, I guess there is one thing, but I need to go away for a week or so, just have a few loose ends to wrap up. When I'm back, what say you to a holiday at the seaside?" Crowley glanced over at the angel, hoping he sounded as cool and collected as he thought he did.

"Oh. I didn't realise you needed to go away for a while," Aziraphale paused and studied his wine carefully for a moment. "A holiday would be nice though," Aziraphale said, the disappointment from Crowley going away on his own evident in his voice.  
  
"It'll fly in, you won't even miss me," Crowley said. He wasn't looking forward to time apart either, but it was for the greater good, he decided. They hadn't spent an evening apart since the world didn't end and he had grown rather accustom to the routine they had gotten into, cooking dinner, drinking wine until Crowley decided he wanted to go to sleep and Aziraphale would read quietly in the chair that had found itself next to Crowley's bed and waking to share breakfast in the morning.

Crowley left the next morning in the Bentley and headed towards East Sussex. He had been scouring property sites since he was safely returned to his own body and he had finally found what he was looking for. In the time between fooling heaven and giving Aziraphale his body back, he had decided that six thousand years was quite enough for a demon to wait and as the bookshop reeked of burning parchment and his flat was likewise tainted. It was time for somewhere new. But it had to be perfect, a place close to London (as Aziraphale would never willingly abandon his bookshop, and Crowley would never dream of asking him to), but could represent their new beginning. He had finally found it, a quaint single-storey cottage with an immaculately preserved thatch roof with enough land to ensure that an angel and a demon could wile away eternity with out interference and was heading out to finalise the purchase. It was a bold move on his part and he knew Aziraphale could still very well tell him no, (he did always go too fast) but he had to try.

Once the keys were in his hands, he made his way back to the cottage to tidy up and ensure it was ready for when he brought Aziraphale to see it. As he stood back and looked over the . . .their cottage, he felt his breath catch and his throat tighten. He wanted to give Aziraphale as close to paradise as a fallen angel could and this was as close as he was likely to get, by his own estimation. A safe, cosy space that was their's to fill. He swiped away at he wetness he felt on his face and breathed deeply.

He then picked up his phone and called Aziraphale. "Hey, i'm heading back into London, I'll be with you soon, get your bag packed."

Aziraphale was dutifully waiting outside the bookshop when the Bentley pulled up. He wore a warm smile that crept into his eyes as he climbed in.

"How was your trip, everything sorted?" Aziraphale asked.

"It was good thanks, yes all sorted. Ready for some rest and relaxation by the seaside?"

"I am! Thank you very much for planning and organising all this, very kind of you."

Crowley shot him a cheeky grin, "I'm not kind."

They chatted as London faded into fields, with Crowley maintaining a speed that didn't cause Aziraphale to grip his fingers into the leather seats. For his part, Crowley was doing his best to remain calm and composed, when he was nearly as nervous as when he had ascended the escalator into heaven. He glanced over at the angel, whose bright blonde hair was catching the sun in such away that he appeared to glow.

When they pulled up the drive to the cottage, Aziraphale's face lit up. "Oh how charming, oh this is just lovely Crowley, just what the doctor ordered!" The front garden was surrounded by a freshly-painted white fence, roses and hydrangeas blooming in the late summer heat. The grounds were scattered with brightly blooming flowers and the scent of lavender caught on the breeze and mixed in with the salty sea air.

"Go have a look around, I'll bring the cases in," Crowley's voice cracked slightly, but he shook it off and watched as Aziraphale made his way around the cottage, with Crowley close behind. The angel cooed as he made his way into each room, classically decorated in whites and greys (perfect as a starting point, Crowley had considered). It was cosy, with only 2 bedrooms, a living room with an open hearth and a large shaker kitchen with an Aga and a log burner.

"Self-catering was an excellent idea, we can certainly relax here!" Aziraphale was bubbling with joy, it was a wonderful spot, Crowley's taste had not disappointed, as usual.

"It's not self-catering, Angel," Crowley said, his hand in his pocket. The cool touch of metal brushing his fingers as he fidgeted with what was inside.

"What do you mean? I don't see a reception for a B&B," Aziraphale said.

Crowley had rehearsed this part a million times (playing both the part of angel and demon in his head). But in this instant, his brain was mush, his heart beating loudly in his ears and his perfectly practiced words escaping him entirely. He took Aziraphale's hand in his, his skin igniting at the contact, gently turned his palm upright and pulled the keys out of his pocket, laying them delicately in Aziraphale's hand.

"It's your's . . or ours . . rather," his words tumbled out awkwardly as he watched Aziraphale's face as his words began to sink in. The angel's expression was unreadable as his fingers slowly curled around the keys and stared unsettlingly at him. Crowley pushed his glasses onto his head, his eyes soft and pleading the angel to understand.

"I . . . I wanted to give you a new life . . . . for us . . . together," His voice was shaking uncontrollable, feeling more vulnerable in that moment than he ever had. "After everything, I want to spend every moment with you, from now until there's nothing left and even after that. I love you, I have loved you as long as I've known you . . . . and I don't want another single minute to pass without you with me," Crowley could feel his ears burning and his tongue felt twisted and too large for mouth.

Aziraphale was quiet, his fingers still closed around the keys and considering Crowley carefully.

"Aziraphale, please say something," Crowley choked.

The angel's face softened and his sky blue eyes fixed on Crowley. He looked every inch the angel he was and Crowley swore if he looked close enough, he could see his snow white wings unfurling behind him.

"I don't know what to say Crowley," Aziraphale looked overwhelmed. Crowley was certain he had gone too far . . . again. Their quiet London routine had been enough surely and he'd gone and hit the accelerator too hard.

But then the angel closed the gap between them, pressing hard against Crowley's lips. Crowley melted in that moment, his arms wrapping tightly, desperately, around Aziraphale, his hands gripping into white fluffy curls. His body lit up as they squeezed as closely together as physics would allow.

"You wily old serpent," Aziraphale said as they slowly broke the kiss. "You planned all this, for me?" he stayed close, his hand cradling Crowley's face, his thumb making a slow line between the sharp cheekbone to the soft plumpness of the demon's damp, swollen lips.

Crowley nodded. "For us."

"You marvellous, remarkable, wonderful, thoughtful creature. I adore you. I could think of nothing I'd like more, than to share this with you," Aziraphale's blue eyes sparkled. "None of this existence is worth living if you're not there."

Crowley felt tears running down his face and tried to brush them away. Aziraphale stilled his hand and pulled him in again.

"I love you, too," he breathed against Crowley's lips, claiming them again.


End file.
